Kincaid's Battery eBook

So passed the better part of an hour before they were
made aware, by unmistakable odors, that they were
nearing the Stock-Landing. There, while they
were yet just a trifle too far away to catch its echoes,
had occurred an incident—­a fracas, in fact—­some
of whose results belong with this narrative to its
end. While they amble toward the spot let us
reconnoitre it. Happily it has long been wiped
out, this blot on the city’s scutcheon.
Its half-dozen streets were unspeakable mud, its air
was stenches, its buildings were incredibly foul slaughter-houses
and shedded pens of swine, sheep, beeves, cows, calves,
and mustang ponies. The plank footways were enclosed
by stout rails to guard against the chargings of long-horned
cattle chased through the thoroughfares by lasso-whirling
“bull-drivers” as wild as they. In
the middle of the river-front was a ferry, whence
Louisiana Avenue, broad, treeless, grassy, and thinly
lined with slaughter-houses, led across the plain.
Down this untidy plaisance a grimy little street-car,
every half-hour, jogged out to the Carrollton railway
and returned. This street and the water-front
were lighted—­twilighted—­with
lard-oil lamps; the rest of the place was dark.
At each of the two corners facing the ferry was a
“coffee-house”—­dram-shop, that
is to say.

Messrs. Sam Gibbs and Maxime Lafontaine were president
and vice-president of that Patriots’ League
against whose machinations our two young men had been
warned by the detectives in St. Charles Street.
They had just now arrived at the Stock-Landing.
Naturally, on so important an occasion they were far
from sober; yet on reaching the spot they had lost
no time in levying on a Gascon butcher for a bucket
of tar and a pillow of feathers, on an Italian luggerman
for a hurried supper of raw oysters, and on the keeper
of one of the “coffee-houses” for drinks
for the four.

“Us four and no more!” sang the gleeful
Gibbs; right number to manage a delicate case.
The four glasses emptied, he had explained that all
charges must be collected, of course, from the alien
gentleman for whom the plumage and fixative were destined.
Hence a loud war of words, which the barkeeper had
almost smoothed out when the light-hearted Gibbs suddenly
decreed that the four should sing, march, pat and “cut
the pigeon-wing” to the new song (given nightly
by Christy’s Minstrels) entitled “Dixie’s
Land.”

Hot threats recurring, Gascony had turned to go, Maxime
had headed him off, Italy’s hand had started
into his flannel shirt, and “bing! bang! pop!”
rang Gibbs’s repeater and one of Maxime’s
little derringers—­shot off from inside
his sack-coat pocket. A whirlwind of epithets
filled the place. Out into the stinking dark
leaped Naples and Gascony, and after them darted their
whooping assailants. The shutters of both barrooms
clapped to, over the way a pair of bull-drivers rushed
to their mustangs, there was a patter of hoofs there
and of boots here and all inner lights vanished.
A watchman’s rattle buzzed remotely. Then
silence reigned.